


My Dearest Bellatrix

by dear_tiger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_tiger/pseuds/dear_tiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A WWI historical AU, in which Sirius Black prepares for a marriage, crashes a tank and falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Dearest Bellatrix

_I listen for him through the rain,  
And in the dusk of starless hours   
I know that he will come again;   
Loth was he ever to forsake me:   
He comes with glimmering of flowers  
And stir of music to awake me. _

_Spirit of purity, he stands  
As once he lived in charm and grace:   
I may not hold him with my hands,   
Nor bid him stay to heal my sorrow;  
Only his fair, unshadowed face   
Abides with me until to-morrow._

_(Siegfried Sassoon,_ At Daybreak _)_

Sirius is dreaming of the crash again. Outside and somewhere not terribly far, artillery is blasting, and his sleeping mind turns its thunder into the familiar roar of Mark’s engine. He grips the levers and feels the tank’s vibration pass through him like a current. He thinks he is dying of heat and the poisonous exhaust fumes that are – no doubt – eating away at his lungs at the moment, but the sensation is distant in the dream, more like a bothersome memory than actual pain.

The enemy lines are not very far now. He keeps his eyes on the terrain ahead and hopes the engine would not fail: it has been making odd noises.

There is a bang, and something whizzes past his head, scratching the very edge of the splatter mask. Sirius swears, not hearing himself, and tries to bend lower in his seat while two more K bullets rip through the armor. The crew ducks. Very slowly, like an enormous ugly turtle, Mark I approaches a shell crater on the right. Sirius can feel the moment of perfect balance before the machine begins to tilt sideways.

His dream skips. Sirius gets up on his knees in a sea of mud full of torn roots. The tank is a great mass of hot metal in front of him; he can smell it but can see nothing. Sirius pulls the protective mask off his face and tries to rub his eyes but ends up getting dirt in them. It hurts to breathe.

In the distance, in the real world, the guns cough twice more and fall silent. Sirius moans in his sleep and tosses his head, and the dreams finally stop.

****

The hospital is set up in a small village abandoned after the front moved too close. Every house is stripped of personal belongings, which are locked away in cellars and attics, and every room is crowded with the wounded. The original furniture was left in place, and the casings of the villagers’ nice sofas are stained with blood. Nurses hurry back and forth along the main street, splashing through the mud because it hasn’t stopped raining for days, and their long skirts are dirty to the knee. 

Sirius Black and James Potter are the only ambulatory patients in their little house with blue bedroom walls. They sit outside under a shared umbrella liberated from the former living room and watch the wounded from the night’s battle arrive. 

“Right,” says James as another man is carried by. “No money on that one.”

“Christ,” mumbles Sirius. 

Behind them and behind the house is a clearing full of wild flowers and grasses; the red poppies bob their heads incessantly in the rain and wind. Sirius plays a game sometimes: he asks them a question and watches then nod, _Yes._ The trick is to phrase the question the right way. 

“So,” says James, “you must be one of the rich boys.”

Sirius pulls a face. “What makes you say that?”

“They made you a driver in a tank crew. That means you at least held a steering wheel before.”

Sirius snorts and thinks of his parents’ house for the first time in probably months. He thinks of the polished parquet, the pristine sheets, the silver dinner sets and all that ridiculous business and wonders how he ever got this far from it. 

“Here.” He searches through the pockets of his uniform and takes out a folded photograph. “My fiancé.”

James looks at the image of a black-haired woman with a sleepy, lazy smile on her face. “Beautiful lady. She looks a bit like you actually.” 

“That’s because she is my cousin,” says Sirius who still watches the nurses and refuses to look at James. “God-damn inbred family.”

James gives him a curious look but returns the photograph without a word, for which Sirius is grateful. 

“Are you married, Potter?”

James sighs and readjusts his splinted leg with both hands to a more comfortable position. “No,” he says. “But you know that nurse, Evans, the redhead one?”

“What of her?”

“She’s mine.” He gives Sirius a confident grin. “So keep your paws off her.”

Sirius thinks that a warning to keep his paws off James himself would be more on target, but he smirks and nudges James with his elbow. “Good luck, mate. I did notice she was particularly fond of you.”

“Well, she won’t tell me her name! How am I supposed to charm her with ‘Oi, you’ and ‘Nurse Evans’? I tried ‘my dear’ but it just came out… I don’t know, sleazy?” 

At that moment, the door of a lovely cottage with a sign ‘Surgery’ nailed to it opens, and a man steps outside; he is wearing a formerly white and now bloody gown over his uniform. He stands under the roof and stretches his hand out into the rain, then rubs rainwater over his eyes. From where he is sitting, Sirius can see a white dressing covering the right side of his face.

“Her name, hmm,” says Sirius. “Maybe I’ll be able to find that out for you.”

“How is that?” 

“Oh, I know some people.”

He watches the surgeon light a cigarette and try smoking quickly, but he only ends up coughing. Sirius sniffs the air unconsciously and imagines that he can smell the bitter mixture of blood and tobacco over the natural scent of skin. The surgeon suddenly meets his gaze, startled for a moment. _Can he see it?_ Sirius wonders. _Can he see it in how I look at him?_ The man waves at him; Sirius waves back. 

“Weren’t you the one that did that to his face?” asks James.

“I was,” says Sirius. “I apologized; he was perfectly nice about it.”

The doctor stubs out his cigarette and goes inside, giving Sirius one last glance over his shoulder. James watches Sirius, too, for a moment longer but again does not say a word. 

****

_My dearest Bellatrix,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. It might very well find you in the middle of an influenza season when it arrives because we are currently in a very unfortunate position, cut off from the main forces. I think I will write ahead and send this whenever a chance presents itself. I noticed your last letter reached me three month after you wrote it. I am certain it was owing to the postal delay, not to the fact that you carried it with you for two months._

_Forgive me, my darling. I am very tired._

_Two weeks ago, I single-handedly crashed an enormous mount of metal that is a tank while moving at three miles an hour. You would be so proud; you do love mayhem, after all. I am quite well, though I broke some ribs, sprained my knee and did something to my spine – I forgot what exactly – and now I am not allowed to lift anything heavier than a bowl of soup. Forget that nonsense about carrying you down the steps of a chapel. When I was brought into the hospital, semiconscious, I hit a surgeon across the face with my splatter mask when they tried to move me, or so a nurse told me later. His name is Remus Lupin; the surgeon’s, that is. I wanted to give him flowers with my deepest apologies, but the fucking red poppies are everywhere, and I am going to vomit if I see another one._

_This is no way to write to a lady. Forgive me, Bellatrix. I am going to sleep now._

****

Sirius is waiting in the dark. On the other side of the thin stretch of woods, another battle is going on, and the late night sky is bright with the flashes of explosions. None of the conscious patients are asleep, he suspects, but nobody is moving in the room. Sirius waits and listens to the racket from the battlefield, to the breathing all around him, and to the scratching of mice in the walls, but those are the wrong sounds. 

He idly wonders how the fighting is progressing, if they are winning, if their lines have been broken, and if maybe the enemy is coming here. There are no weapons in the house; no one but he and James can stand up, and both of them move about as fast as one of Sirius’s beloved machines. 

For a brief moment, a shadow moves across the window, blocking the nervous, flickering lights. Sirius immediately gets up, finds his cane and starts pulling on the uniform.

“Black,” whispers James, “where are you going?”

“I have a date. Don’t wait up.”

It smells like gunpowder outside. Trying not to slip in the mud, Sirius makes his way around the house and to the back porch where a lonely figure is waiting for him. Lupin took off the dressing; for a moment, Sirius is transfixed by the healing red scar on his face, but then Lupin catches his elbow to help him sit.

“Oh, piss off,” Sirius whispers. “I am not one of your amputees.”

“Suit yourself.” Lupin shrugs and sits down on the rickety steps.

These things, they used to be so easy – sitting, circling a house, getting out of bed. It’s like rediscovering the mechanics of your everyday life, all the simple motions you never paid attention to. Sirius grits his teeth and very slowly lowers himself on the porch; Lupin watches him but does not make a move.

“Right,” Sirius says when he finally is as comfortable as he is ever going to get. “I did not think you would come tonight. Can’t sleep?”

“No. I thought we could watch the fireworks for a while.”

They both look across the field, over to where the clouds reflect the light of explosions. Sirius thinks he can pick out the Mark guns in the overall noise. 

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” he says. “They are shooting fireworks on the Thames.” 

“We have the best spot on a bridge.”

“It’s snowing,” adds Sirius. “None of this god-forsaken rain. And we have pudding and goose at home.”

He immediately wants to bite his tongue. Do they live together then? Remus, however, does not seem to notice, distracted by the thoughts of the holiday feast.

“Goose,” he says slowly, closing his eyes. “One of these days there will be that again.” 

Sirius rummages in his pockets until he finds something that James gave him earlier, something that he has been saving for two days – a small bar of bitter chocolate. He places it quietly between the two of them. 

“Oh.” Lupin blinks, forgetting his New Year fireworks. “Where did you get that?”

“From Potter. It comes with a price, though: you have to tell me the name of Nurse Evans, the redhead girl assigned to our house.” And because he does not want Lupin to think he is in any way interested in the nurse, he quickly says, “Potter is mad about her.”

“Her name is Lily.” He eyes the chocolate but does not touch it. “Thank you.” 

Sirius picks up the bar, about half the size of his palm, and breaks it in two. When Lupin still does not take it, he says, “What?” 

“I like food.” Lupin sighs and gives him an apologetic smile. “I really like it. It’s the best thing in the world, even better than sleep. Laugh all you want, but it’s what I miss the most about home.”

“Then take this,” says Sirius. “It’s a gift. Look, it even has nuts in it.”

“Nuts, yes. I’m allergic; my throat will close up.”

“Oh.” The chocolate is melting in his fingers, so Sirius puts it down on the porch again. He imagines himself flashing Lupin a cocky smile and saying, ‘How about this then?’ He would put the chocolate in his mouth and hold it there until it melts all over his tongue, and he would kiss Lupin on the lips. Sirius sits there, running the scene over and over again in his head, until he wants to do it so badly it hurts. 

“Potter gets his intelligence report free of charge then,” he say just to distract himself. “Lily Evans, you said?”

“Lily Evans. You know, actually…” Lupin takes his half of the bar and starts picking out pieces of almonds with a pocket knife. “Free intelligence makes God weep.”

“Right you are!” Sirius laughs and then, on a sudden wave of bravery, adds, “Remus.”

****

_My dearest Bellatrix,_

_I am being unfaithful to you, though only in my head, sadly. Are you unfaithful to me? You probably are, what with that Lestrange fellow always hanging about; but please, don’t stop on my account. To be honest, I would not know what to do with your fidelity if you suddenly decided to grant me with it._

_So tell me, Bellatrix, do they teach you in those boarding schools how to woo a man? Would you share the secret? I am falling flat on my arse here with flowers and chocolates, and thank God I am not in a shape to ask Remus to dance, because I would, heavens help me. There is all-boys romance for you: I hit him in the face with a rusty bit of metal to get his attention, and he shows his affection by not amputating anything of importance. He wraps me in splints and dressings and braces as a metaphor for a tight embrace. Doesn’t that just make your heart flutter?_

****

Reinforcements arrive in a week; they descend upon the Germans, knocking them out of their positions, and the supply and communication lines are restored. Just like that, it’s over. The amputees and those in need of prolonged recovery are being shipped back to England. On a Thursday morning in July, Sirius stands in the street between hospital buildings and watches an ambulance driver fiddle with the overheated engine. James, sullen and quiet, stands by his side. 

“I knew you were lying about Jones,” says James quietly. “She passed us twice already and did not even spare you a glance.”

“Sorry,” says Sirius. “It wasn’t Jones.” 

“It’s all right. I know who it was, you miserable twat.”

Sirius looks away, towards the field full of red poppies, and he asks, _Do I have to go back and marry Bella now?_ They nod their heads, _Yes._ Sirius thinks, _Fuck that._

“Black!” Remus is walking towards them from the surgery building, and Sirius’s palms suddenly get sweaty. James – horror of horrors – winks at him and strolls over to the ambulance to chat with the driver, not giving Sirius the time to deny anything.

“Hello,” says Sirius dumbly. He wants to stare long and good before departure, and let it be obvious. Remus has a nice face, simple and so familiarly British – brown hair, freckles, plain nose. Sirius wonders how easy it is to forget such a face, and maybe it is a good thing after all that Remus will have a scar for the rest of his life. The war will be over one day; how many hospitals can England possibly have, how many surgeons with a scar and an allergy to nuts and a love for good food?

“You forgot something.” Remus pulls him towards the nearest building, someone’s former home now cleared of all patients but still smelling of blood and disinfectants. Sirius follows him quietly into the kitchen and sits in the chair that Remus offers him. 

“What—?” he starts, but Remus pushes a tank splatter mask into his hands. “Ah.” He turns it around; there is dried blood on the iron rings, almost like rust. “I don’t need it in England, you know.” 

“Well,” says Remus. “Maybe as a keepsake.” He kneels between Sirius’s legs, much too close for comfort, and puts his hands on the chair’s handles. 

Sirius blurts out the first thing that comes into his head, “You signed my transfer papers, you arse.” 

“It’s my work, you know. It’s not that I…” He puts one hand on the back of Sirius’s neck, snagging the hair. “It’s not…” 

Sirius leans forward and catches his lips. It’s not very good, as kisses go, with both of them too nervous, too rushed, but then Remus opens his mouth and it’s all wonderful, Sirius thinks. After a while, his back screaming and the mask digging into his stomach become too much.

“Ouch,” he mumbles against Remus’s mouth. “Straighten me up, would you?” 

“Sorry.” Remus carefully readjusts him in the chair; Sirius stares at his reddened lips, watches him try to hide a tiny smile.

“That thing you did,” he says, “couldn’t you have done it earlier?”

“Couldn’t you?”

“Ah,” says Sirius. “Fair enough.”

Half an hour later, sitting in the ambulance, Sirius looks out the window; Remus and James are there, in the middle of the street, and Remus is holding the mask by a strap. Sirius slips his hand into his pocket and for the fiftieth time touches a small piece of paper with a London address scribbled on it. He knows that neighborhood; it’s full of middle-class homes, domestic cats and flower pots. He clutches the paper in his fist so it would not get lost. With a grumble, the ambulance starts moving forward. James raises his hand; Remus just stands still.

****

_My dearest Bellatrix,_

_I am being shipped to a hospital in London, and unless we get bombed on the way, will be there soon. I don’t think I will marry you after all; it’s not as if Mother can drag me to the chapel. Do tell her that. I expect she will want to disinherit me, and that way she can make an early start on the paperwork. I am done, Bellatrix. Please don’t bother visiting me in the hospital as I am shell-shocked and intend to fling a urinal at you._

_Remember our engagement party, when we promised to make each other happy for the rest of our lives? It seems that never seeing each other again is the best way to do so._

_Yours,  
SB_


End file.
